


in my dreams always

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8573743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Jemma finally meets her destiny.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have been trying to write this fic FOREVER, y'all, you have no idea. At least twelve different versions of this exist on my hard drive; it's awful. But! Now it is done and here for your (I hope) enjoyment.
> 
> I'm behind on comment replies again (sigh) but hopefully I'll be able to tackle that today. In the meantime, thanks very much for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“—Doctor Simmons?”

“Hmm?” Jemma looks up, blinking away the after-image of the screen she’s been staring at for far too long, to find a young male agent standing on the other side of her lab bench. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you were at a stopping point,” the agent says patiently. Jemma notes without surprise the red stripe on his ID badge, which marks him as an errand-runner; if he’s stationed in the labs, she assumes he’s accustomed to repeating himself often.

As if to prove her point, there’s no hint of annoyance in his tone when he prompts, “Ma’am?”

Right. He asked her a question.

“Yes,” she says, pushing away from her bench, “I’m at a stopping point. In fact, I think I’m done for the night.” She needs time to consider her next step; she doesn’t want to ruin things by rushing at this delicate stage. “Am I being sent to bed?”

Jemma is a grown woman fully capable of looking after herself, but she’s been known to lose track of time when working on a particularly fascinating project. On such occasions, it’s not unusual for someone to come pull her away from her work to make sure she gets adequate amounts of food and rest.

She has a vague memory of being handed two separate meals by her assistant—lunch and dinner—which makes her quarters a more likely intended destination than the cafeteria.

“I was asked to escort you upstairs,” he says, confirming her suspicions. “At your convenience, of course.”

“Of course,” she agrees. Things only ever happen at her convenience. (Save one particularly important thing, which she’s beginning to worry will never happen at all.) “Just give me a moment to close things out.”

Her escort stands patiently by as she saves her work and sends a copy to her tablet upstairs. It would be better to sleep on it, but she knows she won’t be able to help herself; she’ll pull up the files and do another read through of her most recent results before she goes to bed.

There’s nothing to carry with her—one of the benefits of working and living in the same building; no need for a purse—and so once she shuts down her computer, the only thing left is to follow her escort to the lift.

It’s only as the doors are closing that the oddness of the situation occurs to her. Though being escorted all the way to her door isn’t _unheard_ of, it usually only happens when she’s sent to bed in the middle of something—when there are (admittedly not groundless) fears she may return to her work if left unattended. In this case, she hasn’t argued with him at all, and in fact was the first to bring up being done for the night.

Why is he still with her?

Before she can question him, however, she gets her answer—an answer that sends her heart straight to her throat, because he doesn’t press the button for her floor. Instead, he hits the only button that has no number at all, then swipes his ID badge through the card reader.

The lift begins to rise.

“Are we—really?” Jemma asks, breathless with some mixture of excitement and apprehension.

Her escort dips his head. “Our lord wishes to see you.”

Jemma’s heart triples in speed. Her hands flutter to her hair, to her cheeks, to her lips—did she remember to put on make-up this morning? She was so eager to get to the lab, to check the results of the experiment she’d left running overnight…she rushed through her morning routine, certainly, but did she _complete_ it?

But nevermind that. Though looking her best would be a wonderful bonus, it’s hardly the most important thing.

What will she _say_? What will she _do_?

An eager sort of terror claws its way up her throat. She’s only met _him_ once before, and even that she barely remembers. It was in the wake of a horrible lab accident that nearly killed her, and though she’s strained her memory to its very limits, the heavy drugs that kept her free of pain mean she’s only ever been able to recall faint impressions.

The warmth of _his_ fingers on her cheek, the gentle kiss _he_ pressed to her forehead, the timbre of _his_ voice—they’ve floated through her dreams for years and years, taunting her with a memory that simply refuses to return.

So little to have of _him_ , and yet she’s clung to those fleeting sensations, holding them close to her heart like a treasured secret. She’s waited so long to be summoned, longed to meet _him_ , to know _him_ —but it’s seemed such a distant dream. She never got as far as planning what to say.

And there’s no time for it now. The lift shudders to a stop; with a faint _ding_ , the doors slide open, and her escort extends an arm, inviting her to exit.

She does so unaccompanied. Her escort remains in the lift, and as soon as she’s through the doors, they close, leaving her alone in a dimly lit reception area.

It’s night. She hadn’t realized, absorbed in her work as always, but the windows on the far wall show a dark sky above the shining lights of the city. The lovely view draws her closer, close enough to press her palm to the cold glass. Even from this high up, she can see how few cars dart along the freeway—rush hour is over, it seems. It must be late.

“Jemma.”

The voice wraps around her heart and sinks into her mind—or perhaps the reverse—and spins her to face _him_. For a moment, she can only stare, shocked and giddy as she takes _him_ in: dark hair, handsome features, the weight of age and _power_ she can feel all the way across the room—

Then she remembers herself and hits her knees.

“No, my Jemma,” _he_ says, and in an instant _he_ ’s before her, pulling her gently to her feet. “You alone need not kneel before me.”

“How should I greet you, then?” she asks. Her voice doesn’t waver at all, which seems a miracle in light of the way her heart pounds. Her blood is thrumming, _singing_ at _his_ proximity. So long she’s spent waiting for _him_ , and finally—finally— _he_ ’s before her.

Not only that, _he_ ’s touching her. _His_ hands remain wrapped around her arms, warming her all the way through. _His_ grip is firm but not painful, secure but not confining. _He_ smiles down at her, lips barely moving but eyes dark with emotion.

Her lord. Her _destiny_.

“Alveus,” _he_ murmurs. One hand leaves her arm to touch her face, fingers following the line of her cheek before slipping into her hair. She leans into the touch; _his_ smile grows. “You will call me Alveus.”

“Alveus,” she breathes, and _he_ smiles wider still. “You—summoned me? Is it time?”

She doesn’t keep the hope out of her voice—doesn’t even think to try—and _his_ smile softens at it.

“Not yet,” _he_ says regretfully. _His_ thumb strokes along her jaw, sending a shiver through her. “You’re still too young.”

Frustration wars against the pleasure of _his_ touch. She’s twenty and _he_ ’s seen the rise and fall of multiple civilizations; when will she be old enough? When she’s thirty? Fifty? One hundred?

“Peace, my Jemma,” _he_ —Alveus, he wants her to call him Alveus—soothes. “You must wait only a few years more.”

Her heart sinks. Years, plural? She’s waited so many already.

“You’re impatient.” Alveus draws her even closer and wraps her in a hug that warms her to her very bones. She doesn’t hesitate to return it, and in her arms he is wonderfully solid and _real_. “I understand. I have waited for you far longer than you could imagine.”

That lifts her heart right back up, and she breathes in the scent of him, imprinting it on her memory. There are no drugs this time, no painkillers to steal this beautiful moment away. He is tall and handsome, warm and real and waiting for her just as she waits for him.

 _My Jemma_ , he’s called her, and in the depths of her mind she dares to think _my Alveus_.

He kisses her hair before stepping back, easing the sting of the embrace’s end.

“There is good news, though,” he says. His fingers brush her cheek once more, and then he’s taking her hand and drawing her into the office he appeared from. She has eyes only for him; all she registers of the room is the dark green couch he guides her to sit on.

“Is there?” she asks, belatedly, as she realizes he’s waiting for a response. She also belatedly realizes that she’s hardly said anything at all to him. So far, her failure to plan for this meeting has worked very much against her. “What sort of good news?”

Alveus sits beside her—still holding her hand, stroking his thumb along her knuckles. “Though you are too young yet to be wholly mine, you _are_  old enough now to take your place at my side. I have given you space to grow and mature, and you have done so beautifully.” He raises her hand to his lips that he might kiss her knuckles, a gentle move that knocks the breath right out of her. “You are ready now to stand beside me, to be a goddess and a light to guide our people.”

“Really?” she asks, hardly daring to believe it. “You mean you—you won’t send me away again?”

“Never, my Jemma,” he says. “We will pass the years together. I will insist on distance no longer.”

Relief has her breath shuddering out of her—and with it seems to go the last of the giddy haze the sight of him brought on. Warmed by the promise of his presence, her brain starts ticking once more, and it seizes quickly onto a thought.

“You’ve given me space to grow,” she echoes slowly, sounding the words out as she turns them over in her mind. “The reason you’ve never summoned me before…it’s because you wanted me to grow up without you?”

“Exactly.” Alveus appears pleased. “You have developed an independent spirit, my Jemma—an independent _mind_ —and that is exactly what I want from you. With distance, the weight of my intentions has only buoyed you. If I had kept you close, you would have drowned under it. I would have influenced you, whether I meant it or not; you would have shaped yourself to meet my imagined desires.”

He brushes her hair away from her face, eyes so dark and deep she could drown in them. She finds herself swaying closer, entranced by his gaze as much as his words.

“You would have been only a doll,” he continues. “Beautiful, devoted to me, and utterly empty. So I kept my distance and here you sit—a brilliant scientist, clever and cunning, an asset to HYDRA in every way. Our separation has pained me, but you have done me very, very proud.”

If his intentions have buoyed her, his stated approval of her gives her wings. More than that, though, it eases an old ache—a stone of worry that’s been sat in her lungs for years.

“I was afraid I had overstepped,” she says.

She’s had plenty of chances to do so. Everyone in HYDRA knows who she is—knows that their god claimed her as his goddess before she was even born. Alveus has kept his physical distance, yes, but his name and his power have shadowed her always. Even before she could walk she was honored and feared; there are very few who would refuse her anything, and she’s used that to her advantage frequently.

Since completing university and taking a job with HYDRA, she’s restructured the entire science department (twice) and instituted several organization-wide changes. It was all in the name of efficiency, and the results really spoke for themselves, but still. She’s often worried that wielding his influence without his permission might displease him.

His proud smile reassures her. “Not at all. Power suits you—and you’ve used it well.” He tips his head. “ _While_ making great strides on several very important projects. You astound me, my Jemma.”

“I’m glad,” she says, heart soaring. All she’s ever wanted is to please him, but left without instruction (save a rather absurd standing order that she not join SHIELD, as if she would ever be tempted), she was forced to guess wildly at how to do so.

At ten, _he hasn’t told me what to do, so he must want me to do whatever I want_ seemed like sound logic. With the passing years, her confidence has wavered, and to hear that she was actually _right_ …

It makes her bold. Bolder than she should be, perhaps, but she hasn’t gotten this far—gotten to being someone he’s _proud_ of—by being timid.

So she gathers her courage and asks, bluntly, “May I kiss you?”

He stills.

“I know you said it isn’t time yet,” she continues, a tad worried by his blank face, “but if I’ve still _years_ of waiting ahead of me—surely one little kiss can’t hurt?”

For a long moment, he’s silent—and then his stiff expression melts into a small, wry smile.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he says, voice and tone suddenly very strange. Before she can do more than note it, however, he’s pulling her forward, releasing her hand to cradle her face between his palms.

“Is that a yes?” she asks, barely breathing. He’s so close; she wants almost to close her eyes, to shield herself from the weight of his gaze, yet can’t bear to actually do so. After so long spent waiting, to look away even for a moment would be torture.

“One kiss,” he says, almost sternly.

She thinks to bargain for more—if one kiss is all right, surely two is as well?—but doesn’t get the chance. As soon as his lips meet hers, all thoughts of bargaining (and anything else, for that matter) desert her entirely.

She’s waited her whole life for this moment.

It was worth it.


End file.
